


Hot Baths, Something Holy

by cobbvanth



Category: Star Wars - All Media Types, The Mandalorian (TV)
Genre: Bathtub Sex, Dirty Talk, F/M, Post-Sarlacc, Praise Kink, Reader-Insert, Unprotected Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-07
Updated: 2021-02-07
Packaged: 2021-03-12 03:28:34
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,676
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29253711
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cobbvanth/pseuds/cobbvanth
Summary: Boba wakes up sore in the mornings. You help ease away the ache.beginning of The Princess Bride!AU
Relationships: Boba Fett & Reader, Boba Fett & You, Boba Fett x Reader, Boba Fett x You
Comments: 3
Kudos: 122





	Hot Baths, Something Holy

He does his best not to wake you. 

It’s before dawn and the Dune Sea is still a shadow of itself - mounds of darkened sand rising like the backs of large creatures ripple the landscape and will eventually glitter blindingly as the mauve horizon blends out into a dusty pink then to bright blue. If he strains his ears, he can hear the soft silting of granules pelting against the fortress as the wind blows, still cold from the night before. That, too, will turn hot and oppressive as the day grows, but for now the breeze that blows through the cracks in the palace’s foundations is a welcomed balm to his heated and uneasy skin. 

Boba sits at the edge of the bed - armor less. His knees are slightly apart, his hands resting on his thighs, posture so upright and correct he might as well be sitting in the cockpit of the Slave 1 staring out into the endless expanse of space rather than at the cracking burnt orange wall in front of him. It helps, though, sitting this way; keeps him from breathing in a way that stirs his arthritic muscles. An occurrence that curtails his inhale or exhale into a sharp, hollow sound. It will be a few more minutes before his body catches up with his mind. It’s more difficult these days, even more so after what’s happened, for the ache to recede before he must get up. He isn’t unfamiliar with the usual stiffness that settles in his shoulders and back like stones at the bottom of a well - a life spent using his anatomy as a weapon surely has its consequences, but the soreness that plagues him now teeters further away from the normal pains of combat and closer towards bone weary. A permanent exhaustion he can’t seem to shake. Eventually, as he gets moving, it’ll fade into something he can come close to ignoring. For now mornings remain the hardest. 

“Boba,” you whisper lightly. He looks over to see you lifting yourself up onto your elbow, reaching out to touch his side - eyes puffy and half-asleep. Your fingers unintentionally graze a particularly sensitive scar. He forces himself to turn away and hide the way he jolts. “Are you all right?” 

The answer isn’t quite no. It certainly isn’t yes. 

“I hadn’t meant to wake you. Go back to sleep.” Is his only reply. 

You don’t say anything but he hears you stretch, your limbs gliding along the sheets, clearly ignoring his request. He’d give anything to lay back down with you without risking immobilization. 

“Well, you have.” You point out gently after a moment of quiet spent studying his back. The organ covering it had long since been healed by the time you two met, but you understand these kinds of wounds to be tricky. No amount of bacta could ever really relieve the tense puckering of skin or lessen the white streaks that now slice like shooting stars across his face and limbs. It’s simply a matter of some days being better than others. The armor, strangely enough, helps with the healing. 

You sit up to kiss the back of his neck, then rest your cheek on his shoulder. Your breath alights him in goosebumps. “So you might as well tell me what’s wrong.” 

The warmth you provide is dowsing, not uncomfortable, just overwhelming. Boba closes his eyes and dips his head. “It’s the cold.” 

Many of the buildings on Tatooine are built underground or with materials that block out the heat on a practical basis. Energy conservation is the biggest among them. There isn’t much legal business on this planet that makes money a non-issue. Many moisture farmers and other law abiding citizens with only their hands in one pot cannot afford the credits that would be wasted cooling down their houses. Protection against the elements follows suit for similar reasons - minerals like sandstone, clay, and silica absorb the twin sun’s rays instead of allowing the radiation to seep inside, and in turn during the day time and dry season keep the rooms and the people in them cool while also enduring the harsh gales of desert storms and inclement weather. Jabba’s Palace hadn’t been an exception. A relatively good thing that’s turned out to be detrimental to his joints. 

“Can I do anything?” 

“No.” He dismisses but he isn’t unkind about it. He places his hand over your own where it has been rubbing the slope of his right arm, then takes a hold of your fingers as if they are made of the most delicate glass and brings them to his lips. “It will pass.” 

“I can run a bath for you.” You suggest despite his denial, rising onto your knees to slip out of the bed and into the V of his thighs. The floor is cold beneath your feet. “You shouldn’t have to quietly suffer like this, certainly not for my sake. I should be getting up, anyway.” 

Boba sits for a moment and you wish you could tell what he’s thinking instead of having to rely on the clues he gives you through his body language. You’ve become something of an expert in reading him; the subtle helmet tilts, the purposeful flexing of his fingers within their gloves. It’d be sort of funny that he’s easier to perceive in the armor than he is without it if it weren’t so concerning. All you can decipher is that he’s tired and not in a way you could or ever would quite understand. 

“The warm water will help.” You continue, cupping his face in your hands. “We have nowhere to be.”

He simply hums. That is true. And if it is not, Fennec is more than capable of handling things. 

In an easy and measured motion, he passes a palm over your belly. Intimate. Placating. His head drifts to the side as he gathers the hem of your sleeping blouse - a light threadbare material worn soft from use, and tugs it over your head. You raise your arms and let the flimsy plain fabric be removed. Once having done so, he allows it to slip from his grasp and the shirt pools near your feet. 

Exposed to the true temperature of the room, you step closer towards the heat radiating off the man in front of you. Both hands rise now to slide up the curve of your waist and down over your hips. Up again to glide along your ribs. Then back down. You aren’t unfamiliar with his touch, but it’s always different when his hands are bare. For as much as you enjoy the smooth leather, the catch of the seams that run down his fingers, and the creases in his palm - you do not prefer it to the drag of the hands that exist beneath them and the intimacy of having him touch you without them. 

“Would you like me to run a bath for you?” You try again, quieter this time, unwilling to break the delicate reticence that has bloomed between your bodies. 

“I am sore, not injured…” Boba speaks, sharing in your stillness. “But yes, if you are willing.” 

“That means you must let me go.” A gentle reminder contradicted by the way you don’t make an attempt to depart from between his legs. 

“An impossible task, Princess. You ask too much of me…” 

“I ask only that you let me take care of you.” You murmur, pressing your forehead to his. “Which you are making unreasonably hard.” 

“An undertaking you’d do well remaining where you are.” 

“One I’d do even better if you’d allow me to get the water started.” 

“How did an old man like me earn the heart of a woman so kind?” 

“Would you laugh if I said what attracted me to you was your stubbornness?” 

“I wouldn’t believe it for a second.” 

“With as stubborn as I was, I’m surprised you thought little more of me than a thorn in your side.” 

“Yes.” There’s mirth in his expression as if he remembers it well. “Ensuring the safety of an unwilling client requires a certain amount of patience.” 

“Patience’s you did not know you had, I figure. Seems my father hired you for a reason.” 

You had been furious that along with your own set of palace guards and a team of ladies in waiting, one more person would be assigned to your entourage of babysitters. Your father, informally known as the presiding ruler’s right hand, put much of your family at risk in order to pursue his political and social aspirations. The result was a constant, invisible and oftentimes unfounded threat looming over his immediate relatives. There must have been a modicum of merits to his paranoia. He was (and still is, as far as you’re aware) in the know about the kingdom’s most delicate inner workings. Unfortunately, that meant you suffered as a consequence. When news of a renowned bounty hunter having arrived at the nearest starport passed the lips of an esquire, he was eager to hire the mercenary as a means of protection until the most immediate danger was dealt with. 

You picked up the nickname ‘Princess’ in part by how annoyed you had been. 

“So it does.” 

“I should really go get the bath started.” 

“So you should…” He agrees.

“So…” You manage to take his wrists and push his hands away. You know it’s only by his doing you’re even touching him right now. “You need to let go.” 

He goes to renew his hold, but you slip away before he can reach for you properly and step into the refresher. As with the rest of the fortress, the room is cool, but the intensity of it is heightened by the durasteel amenities and the pipes running through the walls as well as underneath the floor that pump in water from a nearby aquifer. You suck in a breath, braving it to reach for the faucet. Soon enough, however, the steam rising from the hot bath will turn the refresher into a much needed sauna. The vapor probably isn’t too good for the sandstone or permacrete, but you aren’t particularly worried about the structural integrity of the building so much as you are about Boba. If it collapses on you both, so be it. 

The tedium of preparing the bath is interrupted by a temperate mechanical hiss and his presence in the doorway. Testing the temperature with your hand, the tub isn’t so much an actual basin as it is a small pond-like structure built into the flooring. A few steps - about two or three - descend down to a flat and smooth surface and the water pours out of a spout on the wall. You figure this must be due to the size of certain slug guests and their hosts, although you don’t much like thinking about any of the Hutts naked nor the particulars of their bathing routines. To that point, you are grateful that they hired architects who built something wide and deep enough to fit two people comfortably. 

“Thank you.” Boba’s voice is low and quiet. 

You stand up and smile at him, softened by the weight of his approval, flicking water from your wet fingers. “You don’t need to thank me for these things.” 

It’s shameful to admit, but you don’t have much experience in taking care of other people. It’s always been you that’s been looked after. Your soubrettes had done the little, everyday tasks of combing out your hair and laying out your clothing for the day and bringing you your meals. Rather than brave the dynamics of public school, your parents hired private tutors to teach you to write and read. The rest had been taken care of by couriers, instructors, maids. By the time you were old enough to be made aware of it, your life had been so uncomplicated and gilded that, in your eyes, it had become so insufferably boring and unbearable to the point that at the soonest opportunity, you ran off with a bounty hunter known throughout the galaxy for his return from the dead and his ability to kill people. 

But it wasn’t just that. To an outsider, it would look like you were spoiled and you were, so when you left it was seen as an act of foolish, inconsiderate rebellion. It wasn’t until Boba that you had grown, learned, and were made humble - it was his influence that changed you, but your new found identity and morals that prompted your departure. You haven’t regretted it since. Let the kingdom think what they must. 

“Come, the water should be warm enough now.” 

Boba lets you lead him to the bath. His gentleness had come as a surprise to you in the beginning. Although you suspected you were dealing with a far more watered down version of himself when you made his acquaintance, he was still hair-pullingly frustrating and definitely not nice. The bounty hunter acted as if most of the time he knew what was best; he’d follow you through markets, act as a second skin, suggest this and comment on that. And maybe you’d have appreciated it if most of the time whatever he said wasn’t in direct contradiction to whatever you wanted. Sour already, you’d only get more annoyed that he always seemed to be right. These interactions were only made worse when you tested the bounds of his self-control. That’s when you’d get the little peeks at who he was as a younger man and you sort of liked being able to get him angry until it wasn’t so much fun anymore. 

You hadn’t foreseen the caring man that existed beneath all the candor and beskar. 

He lowers himself into the tub gingerly. You watch, waiting for him to tilt his head back and get settled before following. As his body adjusts to the water, you hear him exhale, rumbling and faint. A sound you’re familiar with, the same you hear as he gets into bed at night or sits down at the throne after a long day, sometimes when he’s taking off the armor - like some long-anticipated weight has been lifted, a release. 

The refresher begins to slowly fill with steam until the room is heavy with the condensation, damp against the skin not submerged in the hot water. You sit in comfortable silence, breathing. Normally, you’d allow your thoughts to drift to the day’s events, but you’re careful to keep your mind focused on him. You want to ensure that this helps, that he’s comfortable. Little else matters. 

He must feel you looking at him because he smirks just a little, nearly imperceptible. You’ll never get used to the trust he places in you, to be with you in a state that’s so vulnerable even though by now you know perfectly well what he looks like; broad chested with wide shoulders and strong arms, a soft barrel stomach you like to touch, his body hatched with scar tissue. One that you’ve memorized, sweet and intimate, daring him to shy away. 

The very same you see shift, the defined line of his shoulders adjusting so that his arms are spread on either side of the lip of the bath and you notice the outline of muscle move; the droplets of water clinging to the brown, tattooed expanse of his skin and the streaks of white that break them up, and you find yourself chewing the inside of your bottom lip and looking away, hesitating because it’s morning still and he’s tired - 

“Princess…” He calls to you in his rich, gravelly voice, enough to make you feel off balance, enough to cause you to look into his face - biting back the urge to tell him you aren’t a princess and never have been. 

And when you do look into his face, you discover that he is and has been watching you too. 

Wordlessly, you reach for the washcloth hanging from a small rack next to you. It isn’t a gentle thing, frayed and coarse the way old fabric can get, but he insists that he likes the pressure of it. You’ve been tempted more than once to throw it out, yet you never do. He doesn’t afford himself many of the little things, no matter how careful you wish he’d be with himself. 

His skin beneath your fingers is warm and pliant and when you drag the washcloth down his upper back then across his shoulders, he leans forward. Again, as he did earlier, he takes a hold of and dwarfs your free hand, bringing it to his lips, letting them linger against your knuckles for a few moments as you continue your work. Water weeps from your fingertips and hits the glassy surface of the tub in allayed drips, filling the refresher with the delicate noise and the intermittent artificial wave caused by your movements. You go on to scrub the ball of muscle between his shoulder blades, cautiously attempting to ease it into coming undone when his jaw clenches before relaxing again, Boba clearly hiding a grimace. You pause immediately. 

“Am I hurting you?” You whisper, afraid that even by speaking too loud the vibrations might hit him and make the pain worse. 

“No, Princess. I doubt you ever could.” He answers equally as reverent. 

“Except that one time.” 

“Except that one time.” Boba concedes, his laughter filling your chest with something pleasant and sunny. Still, you haven’t resumed, wary still that he’s answered unhonestly for your sake. A moment of nothing passes. Boba speaks again. 

“Keep going. I won’t break. The cloth feels nice.” 

You comply. This time he guides you. You’re aware that it’s to show you it’s okay, to prove his point, but all you can think of is that while he does this, he’s giving you the chance to feel him. The minutes drag on slowly. You’re not sure when you started using your bare hand instead of the rag, just that you prefer it, the seconds slipping away one after another like sand from your palm, enthralled by the way he leans into every graze and stroke as if incognizant of it and the implications behind each movement - to have this man, powerful in all the ways that count and a nightmare to many, molding himself to fit your caress like new love after a long drought. 

You get closer. It’s moments like these that help you sharpen your decision to leave. It was never vague, this choice, but it lacked a clarity beneath it that even you have trouble deciphering. Opaque the way a basin or lagoons can be, where the top layers are clear and filtered with sunlight but the further down you look the more murky it becomes with mud and silt. You see it now, moving to be in front of him, that what had been missing was this: a connection. Genuine and saccharine; not anything like the relationships you had been familiar with, and so foreign until one day it just wasn’t. 

He murmurs your name as you glide your hands up his neck to cup his cheeks and something sparks in your chest; bursts and spreads throughout your veins, slow moving and sleepy. You respond with his, having given up on the washcloth completely, touching him without any excuse. 

It must not be the response he was looking for because he stops you gently. You look at him puzzled. 

“Your hands.” Is his explanation. You glance at them and see that they are pruned, sensitive and likely to scrape against the sandstone tub on accident. 

You frown a little at the mild grievance, then speak. 

“The water is getting cold.” You notice, looking at the water as if just realizing it. And you have, so enraptured in what you were doing that you lost focus on everything else. 

Boba nods in agreement. You both move to stand, and when you do the water sloshes and some of it spills out onto the floor, then retreats back into the tub in rivulets or filling the concave divots in the permacrete where the sand beneath it has collapsed. A far cry from the luxuries of a true palace. You don’t mind. 

Reaching for a towel, as you go to hand it to him you catch a glimpse of his navel and his thighs - covered in symmetrical black ink, some constellations, others Mando’a script. The first time you saw him naked, you had been surprised by them. Not in a bad way, but nothing about him had suggested he’d have any, covered head to toe in armor nearly every moment you were around. You had thought, once, that you caught a glimpse of something when the sleeve of his black robe had slid up during a game of holochess (this was well into his ‘protective duty’ and you were less inclined to throw the board at his face), but had attributed it to a loose string on the inside of his cuff, too shy to ask and too determined not to let your irritated veneer slip. Once that had passed, you asked about them, and he showed you and explained each one. 

Boba takes it. Instead of drying himself off like you had expected, he reaches for you, and you dry each other. 

He doesn’t kiss you yet. You say his name, breathy and painfully soft as he brings the towel down from your head to your breasts, to your ribcage, then over your hips. Up, down, over. Each movement etched with the same worship as before until the towel is being dropped - until it’s just his hands again, warm and rough and slightly wrinkled just like yours. Until he’s cradling your face and you place your hand over his and lean into his palm, wondering somewhere already far off but becoming increasingly distant if the hot water has helped him feel better.

The downy tension rises like a wispy cloud of smoke, like vapor off the bath, until it stretches and becomes nearly palpable, as if choosing to move apart from one another would result in a collision with something solid and impenetrable - a strangely semi-solid wall of steam. 

When he closes the space between your bodies, you inhale, then yield to it like wet earth. 

Boba’s lips are gentle and kind and not at all hurried, content to take his time; nothing at all like the others you’ve kissed. Dukes and barons and one time, an unfortunate court musician after too much sunberry wine. All of them in some kind of rush, impatient and clawing at your robes. But not Boba. 

He pulls you closer with a shallow groan and manages to get you both back to the bed without tripping over your feet. The bedroom is cooler, a stark difference to the heat of the fresher and you shiver as he sits, pulls you into his lap, then down for another kiss and his skin is still wet and it’s definitely seeping through the blankets but it’s the last thing you’re even close to thinking about; not with his half-hard cock nudging against the inside of your thigh, you skin bare and electric and covered in goosebumps. Certainly not with the way you already want this so bad. The dukes and barons and that stupid kriffing muscian never pulled you apart with this much confidence and ease, piece by piece, cell by cell - every gesture assured, every caress deliberate; the shaking and the fumbling and the nerves all only you. 

His mouth finds your neck. His teeth and lips and tongue blaze a path down the column of your throat to your collarbones, to your shoulders, and he wraps you up like he can’t get enough of holding you; both arms supporting your weight, a palm flat on your spine, the other at the base of your skull. Your chests pressed together, your belly against his. The glow of each other’s bodies soaking and permeating beneath your skin and into your bones. 

Your quarters quickly turn balmy. Everything he does is tooth aching in its devotion. And you feel him like you can’t get enough, like you’re drowning in it, like you need to touch him everywhere all at once, know every inch and imperfection and scar because his desire for you is honest and intense and one of the first real things you’ve ever experienced. And that’s probably not a good thing, it’ll probably end up hurting, except it feels like you’re being worshipped. Boba bends to no man and to no master. His allegiance is to no one and nothing. 

Except for you. 

He keeps kissing you, finds your breasts and kisses them, too. _Stars_ , you’d hate this kind of exposure if it were anyone else. You’d want them to get it over with, whatever that might mean. With Boba, though, you like the feeling of being dissected under his heavy-lidded stare. You like it when he lifts your hips and when he brings them back down. You like the way he watches the head of his cock catch against the folds of your cunt. You like it when he makes you wait as if you’re entire life is suspended by a string he’s holding, the air in your lungs hitched, waiting to be released for anything; anything to relieve the listless and incessant ache building between your thighs that only seems to grow exponentially with each roll and cant. 

Boba does nothing else for a long moment. Hard now, and leaking, his cock is shiny with your movements, but he is content and patient enough to soak up the fever coming off of you in waves, your entire being malleable and eagerly waiting. 

You plead to him caught in this desperate in-between of never wanting this to stop and having him give you what you want already. Shaky hands brace themselves on his shoulders, your forehead lulling against his own, each exhale a huff against his face - your own scrunched up in bittersweet misery. And when he rocks again, you feel as if this time you might break in half and shatter once you hit the floor; his length brushing the sensitive bundle of nerves alight and throbbing with your heartbeat. 

“What is it you want, Princess?” 

“Maker, I want you, Boba. So bad. _Sososo bad._ ” 

“You need to tell me, ad’ika.” His teeth scrape your earlobe. “I do not like guessing.” 

If you had the mental capacity for it, you’d be telling him off in your head. You can barely form coherent thoughts, let alone relay them to someone else. Still, you try, whining that you need him to fuck you followed by something that might be _pleasepleaseplease._

Boba grunts. You’ll revel in the glory of getting him to break later. “As you wish.” 

When he slants his mouth against yours again, there’s a level of desperation in it that matches your own, a degree of longing that only shows up at particularly vulnerable moments, early mornings and late nights that make him human beneath the beskar and leather. And when he pushes in, he does it gradually, bit by bit, gently easing you down until your body is once again flush with his. 

You gasp and the sound is quiet and hoarse like it’s been wrenched from somewhere in your sternum and your eyes flutter shut and your jaw goes slack, your fingers digging into the corded muscles of his triceps as you attempt to regain control over your breathing - so enticingly full and stretched that it’s overwhelming. 

Boba admires you. His eyes flicker over what he can see of your face where it’s tucked into the curve of his neck. He wonders over the slope of your back, the softness of your skin; so beautiful, so delicate. Royalty, he’d tease. The product of a life lived without having to use your hands. But in actuality he likes the fragility you bring. The protectiveness it instills in him to keep you safe. He likes that you aren’t all hard edges and sharp glass. So he looks at you with a mixture of coveting affection and intense vigilance that neither of you have put a name to yet, not when things had become serious and not definitely not here when there’s still work to be done - 

Then he’s moving. He rolls his hips up and you exhale an involuntary whimper and a choked out version of his name as you start to move with him, rocking in tandem, using his body as leverage, pace slow and muscles trembling and kriff if every bath leads to this you’ll live in the refresher for the rest of your life. 

It’s saccharine the way your breaths mingle and the way that he holds you, rolling back and forth, forward and backwards, lost in the feeling of being spread apart like spun sugar. And when you grind down and Boba thrusts up, the angle changes just enough to have you both more frantic, as if you can’t help yourselves - each shallow moan and pump of his hips is good and the friction is good and so are the fingers rubbing circles against your clit; it’s good and then it’s better and if it keeps going on like this it’s going to get blindingly the best and you feel like you’re going to sink in it - panting and rolling and rocking, his cock brushing something wonderful inside you. 

“You want this, Princess?” He speaks through his teeth, clearly just as affected by this as you are, but much better at holding it together. You can’t speak can’t think, so you pull him into a filthy kiss and find yourself moaning into his mouth instead and leaning forward to chase him when he pulls back to allow you to reply - needing to hear you say it, needing to hear you beg. 

“Yes,” you answer, shallow and messy and high strung. “More than anything, Boba.” Eyes screwed shut, brow furrowed, your entire body taut and waiting. You want it so bad that it hurts. 

He takes mercy on you. The sound of skin hitting skin is dull and obscene in the surrounding silence, echoing against the walls of the chambers and mingling with each noise and moan he forces to crawl its way up your throat and his ragged breathing and maybe you’d be worried someone like Fennec would hear you through the door or even if the sounds are travelling through the vents if there was anything left in you that cares. 

“Slower?” He’s mocking and normally you’d be able to throw it back except he’s actually slowing down and you’re so precisely aware of his fingers where they press into the meat of your neck and your ribs, ten pinpoint thumbprints igniting the tissue beneath each callus, that whatever frustration you’d be able to spit at him fizzles out before it can bloom into anything more than a brief flicker. All you can manage is a pitiful no. 

“No.” You try to pick up the pace yourself. “No. I want it faster, please. I want- _oh_ – oh, please.” 

Boba leans back and pulls you down with him, dragging you into a kiss that isn’t really a kiss so much as it is shared breathing and the scraping of teeth and then he’s pressing his forehead to yours again and he’s grabbing your hips, tugging you down and thrusting up faster than before and it’s all you can do to go lax against his chest and take it, your arms tucked under you, whining against balmy skin. 

Of course he’s delighting in it; in the ruthless and unforgiving and sheer force of it all and the sweet little cacophony of noises that clamor from somewhere inside of you as if waiting for a moment like this to come clawing their way out from your diaphragm, in the way you dissolve into a fractured, splintered thing every time he moves underneath you no longer with the energy to even try to hold onto him. It’s rough and it’s good and nearly painful and when his thumb comes in contact with your clit for a second time, you go rigid and try to get away from it and even closer as if it’s too much yet not enough. 

He just keeps going, too. Fucks you hard enough to leave bruises and there are soft, helpless noises that probably can’t be counted as noises that leave your throat and you are suddenly so overwhelmed by it and him and the hand between your legs that you don’t - you can’t - 

You tremble hard. Shake with each muscle in your abdomen that clenches. Intense and chaotic and violent. A woman possessed, calling out his name like it’s the only language you speak. 

And he’s whispering something to you, petting your hair. You can’t hear him, the voice against the shell of your ear rough and low and cinched, can’t comprehend what he’s saying because he’s still moving and shows little signs of stopping; still rocking into you again and again and again and it’s beginning to teeter away from feeling good and slipping towards this near sting until somehow it turns into something that sends quivering flares of pleasure up your spine and down the insides of your thighs again and you feel boneless, flushed with heat and sensitive and he finishes with a groan and a sharp hiss. 

Neither of you move. You’re still shaking, superheated and tired, can feel the wet slickness between your thighs starting to drip further down your legs and the beginning of marks flowering where he’s touched you. Boba holds you, pets your hair and rubs your back until the trembling subsides into a content sigh. 

When you sit up, you smile at him and he smiles back, reaching for you. This is Boba Fett _the man._ Not the bounty hunter. Not the mercenary. Not the man your father had hired. _The person._

“Did it work?” 

“Like a charm, Princess.”


End file.
